Questions
by synthemesc
Summary: Zevran is accustomed to taking his pleasures where they can be found, but Surana prefers just taking whatever he wants, as soon as he can figure out what that is. Zevran/m!Surana, plentiful mentionings of Alistair.
1. Part the First

**Questions**

**Summary:** My take on the Zevran romance, which in some ways I enjoyed more than the Alistair one (!), built in and around scenes and dialogue from the game, with the added problem that the Warden has fallen for Alistair.

**Pairing:** Zevran/M!Surana.

**Words:** ~11,000 in total (it's completed, & I'll upload additional parts as I edit them)

**Warnings:** Slash, brief lead-up and allusions to sexytimes (believe me, you'd rather I not attempt smut), and probably spoilers for pretty much everything, including lampposts.

**Disclaimer:** If I owned Dragon Age, I wouldn't be writing fanfic about it. Bioware is way cooler than I am, I promise. I also use some dialogue from the game pretty much verbatim (mostly in the earring-related scenes).

**A/N:** Guess who forgot to sleep and wrote another fanfic? Yup. That's how it works over here in synthemescLand. In case it will make anything clearer, the order of events I have imagined for this fic is: Lothering, the Circle Tower, the Dalish Elves, Zevran's assassination attempt, Redliffe, Denerim/Urn of Sacred Ashes, Orzammar, back to Denerim, the Landsmeet, and the final battle.

Also, apologies because I don't know if I think my second fanfic is as good as my first. Zevran's character is damn hard to nail (well—figuratively, ehm… you know what I mean.) I just hope I made them interesting and not like crying girls, that's always my fear. Go forth, and be critical of my awful characterization! (…in the reviews you're all going to write, right?)

**********

_[Prologue]_

Zevran is accustomed to taking his pleasures when they are offered to him, so he does not question it when the Grey Warden who spared his life asks to share his tent.

Said Grey Warden is an elf who wears Dalish leathers, but is not Dalish, and is the only mage Zevran has ever encountered who never wears robes and wields a sword instead of a staff. He is strong, though somewhat short even for an elf, and attractive. It only makes the conditions of his oath and his departure from the Crows seem like an even better idea, so he does not set out with any intentions to ask _why_ or pick apart his benefactor's motives, so long as he continues to receive the benefits.

But Zevran is observant either by nature or discipline, and even though he cannot help but notice, he does not question it when they are talking and the Warden steals preoccupied glances over his shoulder like a lovesick teenager, to where a certain blonde-haired templar is usually sitting in front of the firepit.

He does not question, but instead feels strangely disconcerted, when the Warden presents him with a pair of Dalish gloves, and later Antivan leather boots, with the nonchalant explanation that "I remembered you mentioning them before." Then he flashes this bright smile, and hugs him in a way that seems to be more simple affection than a precursor to anything more, and Zevran really _can't_ question it, because he has no idea what to make of someone giving him a gift without ulterior motives, and spends a week waiting for his Warden to make him pay up with some ridiculously complicated or unpleasant request that never comes.

When they sit side by side some evenings, making idle conversation, Zevran finds himself following his Warden's gaze across the campfire to where Alistair sits, polishing his armor, talking to Wynne, or ever-hopefully searching his pack for more cheese, and he has to remind himself not to question it when he can't figure out what is so extraordinary about an awkward, inexperienced Chantry boy who is really quite the whiner, objectively speaking.

And if the name his Warden gasps during the nights when they share a tent is not his, he may have to patch a small hole or two in his pride, but he certainly does not allow himself to question it.

Then he realizes that in his mind _the_ Warden has somehow become _his_ Warden, and that is when the questions really begin.

* * *

The Warden Surana is not a typical alpha-male, chest-thumping hero. He has a healthy curiosity about the world cultivated by a life trapped inside a tower, which is understandable, and he possesses a talent and penchant for manipulation that Zevran has to admit that he admires. If he were a Crow, he would probably be able to get by convincing his marks it was in their best interest to kill themselves. And he would probably also do it with a smile and very few crises of guilt—so Zevran added "amoral tendencies" to Surana's list of personality traits.

He wasn't evil, and in fact had a hidden yearning for justice (the slaver Caladrius had never stood a chance, and was dead almost as soon as he whined out his last plea for mercy in that pompous, nasal voice), but he did make Alistair pout over a less-than-squeaky-clean decision more than once.

But he always won the templar over in the end, with gifts and that smile, and the way he could make you feel like you were the only person who existed in his world.

Zevran was relatively certain the man had never truly, unselfishly cared about another person in his entire life. Which was fine with him, because neither had he.

**********

_[1] Lampposts_

When Alistair waggled his eyebrows and asked in jest, "What about you? Have _you_ ever licked a lamppost in winter?" he had not been expecting Surana to grin like a hungry lion and take on a deep, sultry tone and inform him that yes, he'd certainly _licked_ far more than his share of… _lampposts_.

It made Alistair reevaluate everything the Chantry had ever told him about the Circle Tower, and envision for one very brief, very terrifying instant the sorts of things he would probably have stumbled in on had Duncan not saved him from becoming a templar.

At that moment, Alistair was sure that if his hair and eyebrows could blush, they would have been right on board with the rest of his face as he frantically tried to escape the mental pictures his brain was now generating of his fellow Grey Warden—_quite against his will_—and change the subject to something less completely mortifying.

But you couldn't change the subject with Surana, and all of the things you wanted desperately to evade just seemed to keep coming up in everyday conversation.

He hadn't even realized how many lampposts there were in Ferelden until Surana pointed out every damn one of them in and between Lothering and Lake Calenhad, grinning that predatory grin and _touching_ them—the way he touched them was the worst: very lightly, with just the pads of his fingertips, or sometimes he would glide his whole palm over the length of the post, while asking _So what do you want to do to lampposts in winter, again, Alistair?_ By the time they finally made it to the docks, his face was permanently tinged pink and Morrigan and Leliana were actually beginning to wonder if one or both of them had some sort of obscure fetish for light fixtures.

It was torture, to be sure, but he endured it because he was beginning to actually trust the elf. Sure, he teased more than Morrigan did, but at least he was fairly certain Surana was doing it because he _liked_ him. And he treated him like his ideas were actually worth considering instead of dismissing him out of hand, which was a novel concept.

And even though he suspected Surana would be embarrassed if he mentioned it, he kind of enjoyed the way that when he talked about anything, really, but especially when he talked about Duncan or the Grey Wardens, the mage's face softened, and he stopped joking, and he really _listened_ to what Alistair wanted to say. And when the mage told him his feelings weren't stupid and he understood, he really believed his fellow Warden was telling the truth.

Alistair decided he'd put up with a lot, for that.

* * *

_[2] Jowan_

When Surana discovers Jowan in the dungeons of Redcliffe, it is unsettling, to say the least.

Zevran does not have much sympathy for the man, as a whole. It sounds to him as if his main talent is making very bad decisions, and then begging other people to forgive him and fix his messes for him.

When he shares this observation with his Warden in camp, he laughs and tells him he is a good judge of character.

But what unsettles Zevran is not so much Jowan's apparent incompetence as Surana's apparent reaction to finding a man he has known for most of his life in such a situation.

None of Zevran's acquaintances stretch back that far; he was sold to the Crows when he was seven, and Crow training did not exactly lend itself to making long-lasting social connections. He wonders if he had somehow maintained a relationship with another person over the majority of his lifetime, how he would treat that person upon finding them locked in a dungeon, admitting treason.

He suspects he knows the answer already.

Jowan is thrilled to see Surana, and Zevran immediately assumes there is more between them than meets the eye. Surana greets him relatively warmly, given the circumstances, but does not soften the blow when Jowan asks what has happened to Lily. When they must move on and decide what to do next, Jowan proclaims that he would understand if Surana decides to kill him, and thinks that he probably should.

Zevran finds that his mouth has suddenly become very dry.

At this Surana hesitates, his hand on the hilt of his dagger, and he leans in close to Jowan through the bars, and from the look that they share, Zevran can _feel_ the weight of their history balanced between them.

Surana's forearm twitches, and for one long moment, Zevran believes he is going to do it.

When Surana backs away instead, he turns his head and stares blankly in another direction, saying in a low voice, "I'm not going to kill you, Jowan."

As they leave the dungeon, Zevran finds himself thinking of Rinna—innocent Rinna, begging for his mercy, and a part of him wishes that Surana had just killed the other mage, had killed him.

* * *

_[3] Rinna_

Zevran really only tells Surana about Rinna because he knows that if he doesn't explain what happened on his last job with the Crows, the mage will never stop asking. Afterwards, he finds himself immediately regretting it, because now he realizes the mage will never let him forget.

It is only several weeks later, having located the Ashes and revived the arl and watched him send Jowan to be executed, that Surana tells him that he doesn't believe Rinna's death is entirely his fault.

"How is that possible? It is as much my doing as if I had slit her throat myself," Zevran argues.

"But it wasn't you who slit her throat, was it?" Surana asks thoughtfully. "No, I think someone was… planning for it. Manipulating you."

Zevran clenches his teeth, does not say that wouldn't make him any less guilty. "And so you have been bringing it up and taunting me with it ever since I told you for what reason?"

"Because _you _don't believe it yet," Surana says with a bright smile, and claps him on the shoulder before running up ahead to retake the lead of the party. Zevran is unsure whether he should feel encouraged or offended.

* * *

**A/N:** Shortness! Exposition! Hopefully not too much awfulness! Next time, I promise you even more blushing!Alistair, more terrible innuendo, and a guest appearance from Morrigan and her distaste for smiling! Thanks for reading!


	2. Part the Second

_[4] Isabela_

Though their stay in Denerim to search for Brother Genitivi was meant to be brief, Surana could hardly have left the city without first paying a visit to the infamous Pearl. There they met Isabela, and Surana was delighted that she and Zevran had already been acquainted. He was even more delighted when she invited them back to her ship—at least she invited Surana and Zevran, leaving Leliana and Alistair behind to exchange disbelieving glances and with Surana's suggestion to "have some fun yourselves" while they were gone. But of course, neither was particularly interested in hiring The Pearl's services, and they whittled away their impromptu break sitting at the bar and ordering drinks at their leisure.

Upon their return, Surana and Zevran both looked very pleased with themselves, in a way that Leliana supposed only men just having participated in a threesome could. She noticed with some curiosity that there were times when the elves looked eerily similar, and it had little to do with their shared race or any actual physical resemblance. As the two made their way over to where she and Alistair were sitting, she heard Surana asking Zevran, "Doesn't it ever get awkward, meeting old flings in the most unlikely places?"

"Not at all, when the memories are pleasant," Zevran answered thoughtfully. "And The Pearl is not really so unlikely a place for such a meeting, is it? Anyway, my dear Warden, I'm sure you are familiar with the feeling. All of your prior experiences were in the Tower, yes? You must have run into former bed partners quite regularly."

"Well, of course, but that was different," Surana said with a wide, feral grin, and a none-too-subtle glance at Alistair, who had gotten up and was now standing near the table, trying not to listen to their banter. "I always had the upper hand. Most of them were templars."

Zevran allowed himself a laugh as Alistair seemed to come to attention quite abruptly, his ears slowly growing pink. "You… you used to seduce templars?"

"Mm, it was like a sport among the older apprentices," Surana began with a reminiscing sigh and a wink to Zevran, who fell silent in favor of watching the redness bloom across Alistair's face. "And believe me, my templar friend, I have not lost my game simply because I've left the Tower."

Alistair's mouth fell open, perhaps to inquire exactly how any such thing could even be considered a sport, but he couldn't seem to form words, once again trying to wrap his head around Surana's portrait of the Circle Tower as some sort of secret perverted sex palace underneath the Chantry's façade. He would have to ask Wynne about this, as soon as he could muster the courage.

Zevran picked up the opening, for once agreeing that taunting Alistair for his purity did have in it its amusements. He shared a glance with his Warden, who smiled serenely and nodded to him, then launched once again into a tale he had recently regaled Wynne with, despite the fact that she had pointedly disillusioned him about its truthfulness. "Ah, I am reminded of a story I once heard about the Circle in Antiva, detailing the rituals you magi perform on the eve the full moon… is it true, that all of you strip naked atop the Tower, making love beneath the stars in a glorious, moon-kissed orgy…"

"Only on full moons, you say?" Surana gasped, the levity in his tone hard to miss. "To my memory, it was more of a weekly thing, really."

They shared an appreciative look at the templar's immediate stunned reaction, but it was short lived.

"See, now you're just having me on. You have to be joking. That doesn't happen," Alistair said, taking a deep breath and keeping his voice still, his composure returning. He crossed his arms. "I know they don't perform weekly sex rituals at the Tower. I'm not _stupid_, you know."

"Maybe we do, maybe we don't," Surana continued lightly, laying a hand on his shoulder and catching his eyes with a smoldering gaze. "But I promise you: 'templar-baiting' is a _very_ real pastime… one that can get rather… _heated_. Perhaps I could explain through demonstration…"

Alistair made a small noise and stepped back somewhat ungracefully into the table.

"You are so unkind to him, Warden," Leliana interjected with a sigh, catching hold of Alistair's arm and helping him regain his balance.

"Me, unkind? Perish the thought. He brings it on himself, the tease," Surana remarks with another longing sort of sigh, and moves towards the exit.

"Yeah, _I'm_ a tease, sure," Alistair grumbles to himself, rubbing his lower back where it had connected with the table, and follows the others to the door. He notices that Zevran's arm rests almost protectively around the other Warden's waist as they exit the brothel, and for a moment, he wonders.

* * *

_[5] Rejection_

Despite all evidence that may be presented to the contrary, Alistair really is not completely stupid.

He may not understand _why_ Surana is pursuing him with such vigor and enthusiasm, but he is not so oblivious as to miss the fact that there is some sort of pursuit taking place.

It confuses him even further, because he _knows_ Surana is slipping into Zevran's tent almost every night these days. He understands that doesn't mean there are emotions involved, and he's never seen two likelier candidates for meaningless, casual sex than the assassin and the mage, but the heavily Chantry-influenced part of himself would like to believe that you couldn't be with another person _that much_ and not feel anything for them.

And anyway, when the two elves sit side-by-side at the campfire in the evenings, engaged in idle chatter over bowls of whatever stew had been cooked up that evening, he knows they're both staring at him. Surana's gaze is familiar and laden with desire and promises, but Zevran's glances—which had started out as nothing more than simple appraisals—now make him nervous, and not in the I-was-formerly-hired-to-kill-you way. That glare seems so much more… personal, of late.

The assassin is never really unfriendly to Alistair or anyone else, though, perhaps figuring that being personable is in his best interest given the way he came to join their group. And he usually does seem to find the Warden's unrelenting teasing of Alistair to be a source of amusement. It's only in certain moments that Alistair notices something else, some other emotion, creep onto Zevran's face, and usually it's so fleeting he wonders if he's even seen anything at all.

Still, he takes to sitting with Wynne or Leliana most evenings, just to keep himself distracted from the elves' wandering eyes if nothing else.

"I think it's sweet, most of the time," Leliana tells him one evening. "He is trying to woo you, in his way."

The bard strikes him as spacey and more than a little odd at times, but she loves monitoring the state of the interpersonal relationships in their group—to be honest, she's a bit of a gossip—and consequently she is also more than happy to give him her theories about the other Warden's behavior and he needs all the help he can get.

"Is that how a person woos a man, then? With lascivious comments about lampposts?" Alistair asks. "You know, I would have chosen a different metaphor had I known."

"No, I think this is just how _our Warden_ woos a man," Leliana responds with a small giggle. "I don't think he knows what else to do, Alistair. Think about it. You make him feel a certain way, that he maybe does not understand, so he seeks to control his feelings by making you uncomfortable, too."

"But that's stupid!" Alistair protests. He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration, and shoots a glance over his shoulder to where the other Warden is usually sitting with Zevran. Zevran is indeed there, sharpening his daggers enthusiastically. The other Warden is walking towards him. Turning back to Leliana, he looks distraught. "How do I make him… not feel those things for me? Why can't he just feel them for Zevran?" he hisses desperately.

"I'm not so sure that situation would be much better for him," Leliana says sympathetically. "Just be gentle when you let him down, no? Look, he's almost here."

"Alistair, can I have a moment?" Surana asks, almost shyly, and Alistair glances at Leliana. She does nothing but give him a small, understanding smile and incline her head slightly to dismiss him from their conversation.

Suddenly, Alistair is overcome with nervousness. He isn't used to being the one who has to let someone else down, romantically. In fact, he isn't used to being the one _let down _romantically, either. He just isn't used to it, period, and finds himself with no idea what to say at all.

They stroll out to the edge of camp, just out of sight of the others. Surana settles himself down on a mossy log. Alistair would prefer to keep standing, to retain the freedom to pace around with his thoughts, but his friend is looking at him with such significance and he knows he's being asked to sit down as well, so he does.

"Do you like me?" Surana blurts out suddenly, and Alistair swears for a moment he has been teleported back to Redcliffe Castle, age seven, when a daughter of one of the servants had sat him down in the stables amidst the hay and made him answer the same question. That episode had ended with him mumbling some confused, noncommittal reply, and the girl punching him in the nose and running away in tears. The entirety of his experience with romance had begun and ended in that stable, and he sincerely hoped that the resolution here would be more pleasant. For one thing, he's fairly certain Surana doesn't punch like a seven year old girl.

Only he feels about as articulate now as he had been at seven years old, he realizes ruefully. Still, he gives it his best shot. "Of course I like you. Yes. Why would you even ask that? We're Grey Wardens, brothers-in-arms, and I don't think I would be here, fighting the Blight, without you," Alistair says sincerely. The mage's eyes are dark and guarded and he regards Alistair intently as he speaks. "You've been… a very good friend. The best."

Surana nods, but he looks detached from the movement.

"Look…" Alistair suddenly feels awful. It doesn't seem fair that after all they've been through he can't give his friend the one thing he wants. Maybe that's why when Surana places his hands on the sides of Alistair's face and leans in, he doesn't jerk back or pull away. He lets Surana kiss him, the other man's lips soft and warm against his own, and neither Warden makes any move to deepen it. It's completely chaste—ironically, one of the few interactions the mage has ever kept so—and when it ends Surana rests his forehead against Alistair's for a moment, his eyes closed. Alistair can see his eyelashes flutter and feel his slow breath, as if he is savoring every moment and sensation; he has a sudden compulsion to hug the other man, perhaps to console him, but then Surana pulls away and hangs his head, staring at his hands.

"Look, I…" Alistair tries again, but he's cut off before he can finish his sentence.

"You don't have to say anything," the other Warden says thickly. He sits up and rolls his shoulders back, keeps his eyes forward. "It's fine. I'm over it. Not done teasing, mark my words, but I'm over it."

Finally, he turns and gives Alistair a mischievous smile. "Before I go, I just want you to know something. Truthfully, I only ever managed to seduce one templar. Two, if you count that kiss I just stole. There aren't any crazy sex rituals in the Tower. No organized templar-baiting. Some of the female apprentices liked teasing the younger ones, the newest arrivals especially, but it was pretty rare for anything to actually come of it. You templars really do have iron wills."

With that, Surana stands up and brushes the dirt off himself, smiles his best devil-may-care smile, and saunters back into camp. Alistair shivers, suddenly feeling the chill in the air, and slowly rises to follow.

* * *

_[6] Morrigan_

Morrigan looks up and purses her lips when she notices Surana walking towards her campfire. He likes to ask her endless questions about the magic Flemeth taught her, and has been begging for some time for a peek into her mother's grimoire. As company goes, he certainly isn't the absolute worst of the companions she has found herself traveling with, and usually she isn't _entirely_ off-put to see him approach.

But as she places the book she has been reading aside and stands to greet him, she sees that he is wearing the same ceaseless grin he has been for most of the evening.

"You have been smiling for _hours_," she accuses, with some incredulity. Surana only laughs.

"I know! And Alistair isn't even in sight. Leliana has been helping him with his bow and arrow skills for quite some time now… what has become of me, where is my seething jealous rage?"

"Not Alistair, you fool. Though you've hardly been more sensible than him since the last time you exchanged glances with _the assassin,_" Morrigan says with intent, not at all amused by what is certainly denial of one type or another.

Surana shakes his head, dismissing her. "It's nothing."

"'Tis hardly _nothing_," Morrigan answers, rolling her eyes. She has little patience for his games. "Unless you are both blind _and_ stupid. But no matter, how you manipulate those who care for you is of no concern to me. Though to be truthful, as sickening as watching you two carry on is, 'twas much more so to endure your flirtations with Alistair."

"Careful, I've heard eating too many deep mushrooms at once can do permanent damage, Morrigan," Surana teases. "You can't possibly think he really cares for me. Or that I…"

"Ah, so blind and stupid it is," Morrigan interrupts him, sighing with boredom and sitting herself down once again. She reaches for her book, signaling that she has no interest in continued conversation. "And here I thought you were some kind of master of manipulation. It would seem the assassin has fooled _you_, instead."

Surana glares at her angrily for a moment, then turns sharply and retreats to his tent, alone.

* * *

_[7] "Zevran."_

Zevran remembers vividly the first time Surana manages to correctly match the name he's moaning to the person he's actually sleeping with, because he's actually gotten so used to the mage's weird obsession with Alistair that he just does his best to ignore it.

Of all the things he questions these days, he wants Alistair to be the very last on the list, which is perhaps a feeling he should be doing more questioning of, but he pushes that thought aside.

It happens after leaving Orzammar, and ending an extended stay in the Deep Roads. He is not usually claustrophobic, but he found that the constantly encroaching stone on all sides of him for weeks had been taking its toll. Surana and Alistair had felt it harder than anyone else due to the taint, and it had seemed like they were never at peace.

Alistair had become much more irritable and high-strung, turning around often to search the emptiness behind him for only the Maker knew what, and flinching easily at every sudden noise. Surana also found himself drowning under the pressure of the awful place, but he was more prone to spontaneous acts of aggression, like casting blizzard on a single stray genlock and covering the party in snow for no reason, or casting off errant arcane bolts as they walked and he felt himself getting too anxious; as a result, the entire party remained on edge for fear of rockslides.

One evening when Zevran had taken the night watch, his Warden had jerked awake, yelping from the nightmares of the archdemon that often plagued him. Somehow Alistair made it to the side of his bedroll first, and Zevran could only stand nearby, staring as Surana clung to his fellow Warden and gasped his thanks for _being the only one who understood_.

Bitterly, Zevran had tried—and still did, at the memory—not to count how many nights in camp he had held the elf when he had woken up thrashing and yelling beside him, and had calmed him down and helped him to fall back asleep, promising him protection from whatever visions haunted him. He might not be a Grey Warden, but he still understood nightmares perfectly well. And yet Surana had hardly ever done more than force himself to keep still, silently press himself into Zevran's chest before falling back into an uneasy slumber.

Something deep inside of him had twisted, looking at the two of them, and Zevran didn't really think _unfairness_ began to cover it adequately. These days, something inside him wanted to lash out wildly at the templar whenever his Warden's eyes fell on him and it was all he could do to convince himself he was not jealous or developing some sort of complex.

Once the Deep Roads were behind them and Orzammar had a new king, Zevran thought the return to travel on the surface felt like being returned some long-forgotten ability to fly. Suddenly everything is so _bright _and _open_, and he doesn't feel constantly ill at ease for having his internal sense of time and orientation muted by tons upon tons of unforgiving stone.

He has never experienced any particular affinity to nature due to his elven roots, but upon leaving Orzammar he can almost understand the compulsion to embrace trees as if they are his family.

They make camp earlier than usual, while there is still plenty of daylight. Surana comments that it feels wonderful to actually have fresh air to breathe and real dirt and grass beneath his feet again, and Leliana excitedly points out that there's a small mountain lake with running water not too far away, and they can all finally scrub off all of the grime and gore of the Deep Roads.

It is agreed that the women will bathe first and the men second. Alistair, who is lying comfortably on the grass, basking in the sun, says that he wants to enjoy this moment for as long as he can and will bathe later.

Of course, Surana sees an opportunity, and none are surprised when he grasps for it. "This evening? We can hardly afford to let you go by yourself, in the dark, leaving yourself open to attack. I can wait, and go with you." He says it as if his intentions are completely practical, but that distinctly feline quality has returned to his features.

But before Alistair has a chance to stammer out whatever fumbling response he'd been forming in his head, Zevran cuts in, the anger bubbling up from under his skin. "It's true. The last two Grey Wardens in all of Ferelden can hardly leave themselves so vulnerable. I will accompany you, as well."

Surana is visibly put out by this, and Alistair realizes that this means he will have to be unclothed and alone with both Surana _and_ Zevran, who are now exchanging furious glares, and quickly rethinks his decision and announces that on second thought, he prefers bathing sooner rather than later.

Surana's anger at having his machinations subverted has not entirely subsided by dusk, and neither has Zevran's, when they wordlessly make their way to the lake together. Regardless, the mage strips quickly and tugs Zevran into the water as soon as his armor has been removed, obviously still determined to at least have the assassin if he can't have Alistair. This experience of constantly being second pick is alien to Zevran, and he tells himself that is why he is so angry, kissing Surana like he equal parts wants to bed him and kill him, all teeth and fingernails—it's just his pride bristling.

He moves his kisses down the other elf's neck and chest hungrily, and when his teeth find the hardened peak of a nipple, Surana's breath catches.

"Zevran."

He stops abruptly, both somewhat shocked to hear his name and irrationally afraid that Surana is actually going to snap at him for something, perhaps begin an abrupt yelling fit about his ruined plans, but all he hears is the mage's frustrated whine, saying that in Andraste's name, he had better get back to what he was doing _right now_ or so help him…

Zevran smiles to himself and obliges.

Had he not known better he would have thought, by the way things continue, that the only word Surana knows how to say is "Zevran," and that he likes saying it more than anything else in the world, almost as if he is trying to make up and then some for every time he's said "Alistair" instead.

This strange, new habit of Surana's continues for the rest of their trip to Redcliffe Castle, where they inform Arl Eamon they are ready for the Landsmeet to be called, and then Zevran is further pleased when it persists throughout the journey to Denerim, as well. He feels… triumphant, as if he has inadvertently won a competition, and his ill intentions towards the templar cease, at least for a time.

* * *

**A/N:** Huzzah! Next time, straight from my brain to your computer screen, we have sentimentality, an attempted gifting, more sentimentality, and a (very brief) guest appearance by Taliesen. Thanks again for reading and please review! :D


	3. Part the Third

_[8] Passion/Poetry_

Staying at the Arl's estate in Denerim and sleeping in a real bed again is wonderful. Lying in _Zevran's _bed in the middle of the night, curled ever so slightly by the other man's side, is even more so. When he is like this, Surana can almost forget about the Blight and his thousand and one obligations that he isn't even entirely sure how he's accrued.

He likes being the only one awake, listening to the assassin's slow breaths and watching the corresponding rise and fall of his chest. It makes him remember something that Zevran said soon after they met: that he fancies things that are beautiful and things that are dangerous.

Looking at Zevran like this, when he can see all the beauty plainly and recall the dormant danger in that sleeping form, he almost forgets entirely that Alistair even exists. He vows to never say it aloud, but it makes him question which of the two he really considers to be nothing more than idle play.

He thinks Zevran has been clear about his intentions. In some ways, they are perfect for each other: rational and practically minded, emotionally distant but charming, and content in the pursuit of their own survival, but thrust into situations where they have little choice but to work for the needs of others. _But Zevran can leave anytime he wants to, and I don't really have a choice in being a Grey Warden,_ Surana thinks, slowly tracing the patterns of the tattoos on the other elf's body with his fingers. _If he wanted to leave, I wouldn't stop him. So I'll just have to hope he never calls my bluff._

Then he shakes his head, realizing what he's just thought. He can't allow too much attachment to this man, who is supposed to be nothing more than easy sex and temporary companionship. He remembers Zevran promising he would never ask for more than Surana is willing to give, but he honestly has no idea how much that is—how much he is capable of.

Vaguely, he wonders if this would make any more sense if it were the templar lying beside him and decides that it would probably make less. Alistair is earnest and noble, he values duty and really, really _cares, _which is what gets him the most—the caring, about people and things that he has no ties to, people who have treated him badly. He thinks he is drawn to what he can't understand, maybe seeks to conquer and consume what he can't explain. It's a pointless diversion, while Zevran, pushed into the background, has become… comfortable. Familiar.

Zevran's eyes flicker open and he squints at Surana, letting out a small, bothered growl. He can sense his Warden's movements, feel him shifting around him and watching him, and his assassin's instincts won't allow him to sleep through it.

"Is something amiss,_ mi amora_?" he asks tiredly, and his Warden shakes his head.

"No. I was just thinking," he sits up and tilts his head, looking at Zevran more closely now. Zevran closes his eyes again and asks him if it would be possible for him to think without moving around quite so much.

"Of course, I'm sorry I woke you, but I… just had a question," Surana starts.

"At this hour?" he inquires. When Surana doesn't seem to be relenting, he sighs and rubs the sleep from his eyes, and sits up as well. "All right. But it had best be about a wild, wicked fantasy you have been hiding from me. Something with chains, and whips, and several women dressed in tight leather, I hope?"

His Warden smiles. "Very tempting," he says. "But that's not what I was thinking of, no."

"Tsk. Such a shame. Another time, perhaps," Zevran laughs. "Now that I am thoroughly awake, what's on your mind?"

"I've never wondered if you feel guilt about your marks," Surana says. "It truly doesn't matter to me. I don't think it's important, feeling guilty over parts of your life you can't change. Alistair doesn't understand how I can trust you, but I think trusting you not to kill me is the easy part. It's other things… I'm finding myself wondering about your feelings about other things, is all. Actually, I was wondering whether or not you have ever… loved someone?"

Zevran's eyebrows raise at the question, and Surana is somewhat disappointed to see his guard go up, flashing across his face like a physical shield. "I have… loved… many, you know this," he answers evasively. "Is that a problem?"

"Of course not. _You_ know this. But _making _love isn't what I'm talking about, and you know that, too."

"I beg you not to ask me questions you know will bring you answers you do not wish to hear," Zevran says, a note of warning in his voice. Suddenly Surana wants to scream at him, scream that he knows he must have loved Rinna and he just wants to hear him say it. At the same time, he isn't sure why he is seeking affirmation that Zevran is capable of such emotions, because he is still unsure if he is himself.

"So it's just… ever the cold, heartless killer, then? You cannot remember ever having felt anything for another person in your entire life? Remind me then, has this attitude always served you well, Zevran?" he asks.

He knows he's gone far enough when he feels Zevran's muscles stiffen, as if readying for an attack. He thinks that in itself might be his answer, and he is satisfied, at least for the moment. "I would choose my words carefully, were I you," Zevran whispers dangerously.

"You insult me, when am I ever lazy with my word choice?" A playful grin is spreading across Surana's face now, his tone lofty but his eyes still serious as he tries to turn the conversation around. "I only mean that you were not _meant_ to be cold and heartless, Zevran," he says grandly and his eyes shine like they do when he is preparing to cast a new spell that he is particularly excited about. "Unyielding, and deadly, and gorgeous, yes… but _heart_less? No, you were made for passion, and poetry, and fine, delicately crafted Antivan leather—"

"Now you are talking nonsense," the assassin huffs.

The mage ignores his tone and presses on. He has to say this, to tell Zevran what he knows. "On the contrary, I am being very serious. The Crows, they could train you and mold you, but I suspect they could not destroy your nature. I think you still have the capacity, if you wish, to—"

Unwilling to hear the end of that thought, Zevran interrupts. "You woke me up in the middle of the night to tell me that I am secretly a passionate, delicate soul, hardened by a life of misfortune?" He laughs shortly, through his nose. It's a skeptical sound. "You eternally surprise me with your perceptiveness and ability to see through the mask I wear to hide my tortured spirit, dear Warden, but your timing is _terrible_. May I return to sleep now? I need my beauty rest, after all I cannot write my poetry without it."

Surana glares at him, arms crossed like a petulant child. The man was truly mercurial, grinning and indulgent one moment, moody the next. "Laugh if you will. You know I'm right, and I'll have my answer."

"Yes, of course you are correct. Good night then, my perceptive friend." He leans forward and plants a gentle kiss on his Warden's forehead, then falls back into the mattress and rolls over, pulling the covers up to his chin, hiding the pleased smile he can no longer suppress. He is finally drifting back to sleep when Surana's arm snakes around him, and he feels… safe.

* * *

_[9] Taliesen_

When Taliesen catches up to them in a back alley of Denerim, Zevran finds himself afraid of Surana for the first time.

He is always fierce in battle, embracing the rush of adrenaline and reveling in the feeling of having power over another person's life—he knows they share this. But the look in Surana's eyes is more than that as he lifts his hands above his head and brings them down in a violent sweep, casting Taliesen into a crushing prison. It is downright terrifying.

"_Zevran belongs with me now."_

He is frozen for a moment, words spoken only moments before echoing in his mind, but the other assassins who have slipped out of the shadows quickly demand his attention. Surana has not hung back as he usually does to cast more spells before drawing Spellweaver and entering the fray. Instead, he is single-mindedly attacking Taliesen's immobile form, screaming with bloodcurdling fury, and Zevran knows that the rogue he has known for years does not have a chance. His body finally falls to the cobblestone, lifeless and bleeding.

Zevran can't really be sure if he sees what he thinks he does – there are arrows flying all around him and the clash of metal against metal in his ears – but he is reasonably certain that Surana does not simply move onto his next target. Instead, he ducks down to Taliesen's corpse, and _whispers _something to the dead man, the gleam in his eye nothing short of barely-contained hatred.

But before he can process what might have happened, Surana is beside him and they fall back into their familiar battle patterns. Surana is still formidable, of course, and combined with his own expertise they readily dispatch the remaining Crows… but all traces of that fearsome blind rage have vanished.

After the battle is over, Surana insists that he will not care if Zevran chooses to go. He conceals the frustration and confusion he is appalled at himself for feeling, and he thinks that maybe Taliesen was right, he's gone soft. Finally, he says that he wishes to stay, if that would be permitted, and Surana gives him a crooked grin and tells him that at least it will be easier to kiss him this way.

Even as he catches the other man's lips with his own, Zevran briefly feels that unquantifiable twisting within him, and gets the unpleasant impression that Surana wants him to feel like a kept whore. It's just one more alien sensation, another question to mull over—being used has never bothered him before—but the feeling quickly fades, because he cannot shake the image of his Warden bent down, whispering to Taliesen, full of raw emotion, his lips forming words…

_You and your Crows will never hurt him again._

* * *

_[10] Earring_

Zevran cannot understand why it makes him so damn _angry._

He has trained himself for his entire life to keep low expectations. There are few issues of disappointment or emotional entanglement, at least on his end, when he asks for nothing and so often sleeps with people he has been contracted to kill. And really, he knows better than to have expected anything here, from Surana-who-loves-Alistair, and reminds himself that this is not nearly as much of a problem as it _feels_ like it is.

When he decides that he will give Surana the earring, he predicts that any number of things will happen: he will laugh, he will make a crack about maybe getting Leliana to help put him in a nice dress with shoes to match, or he will simply stare at him blankly and walk away. Never in a thousand centuries would he have expected Surana to demand a… is it actually a confession of love that he wants? Zevran has no idea.

"Feel free to sell it, wear it… it's really the least I could give you," Zevran tells him, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, trying to look casually into the distance somewhere over Surana's left shoulder.

Surana examines the small piece of jewelry for a moment, before looking back up at the other elf and asking with such a convincing note of disappointment that Zevran almost believes it, "So… it's not a token of affection, then?"

But everything with Surana is layered, not what it seems—concern is a chance for manipulation, passion is a disguise, and when he is being honest is when he lies the most. He has never openly expressed any real interest in securing affections any deeper than physical ones from Zevran, and he finds himself wondering why he is even bothering with this. It is his treacherous gut, he knows, pushing him towards sentimental actions that have grounds only in his even more treacherous mind. Hadn't the mage just spent most of the lighter evening hours having Alistair coach him on his fencing skills, getting unnecessarily close, until the templar finally claimed exhaustion and ended their training session? Suddenly, Zevran is not in the mood for more games.

He quickly says that the earring means a lot to him and tries to place it in the other man's hand so he can make as clean an escape as possible, as soon as possible. "Please, just take it."

"No. I don't want it."

Zevran stops dead, and for a moment he is rendered speechless, overwhelmed by the feeling swelling within him, crushing him_._ He would have preferred jeering laughter.

"I'll only take it if you promise me it means something," the elf says shortly, as if he has been insulted, and Zevran realizes that for once, Surana is being serious. The ridiculousness of the situation hits Zevran like a very heavy maul to the back of his head. He cannot decide which is worse, Surana's rejection or his audacity. He does not know what the Warden is thinking, throwing that sort of ultimatum at him, and he has no wish to find out.

He is done playing along. So he nods curtly and says, "You don't want the earring, you don't get the earring. Very simple."

And then he stalks away.

* * *

_[11] Library_

They have been sleeping separately for a week and a half. The last ten nights have seemed notably quieter and colder to Zevran, and during the last few days the mad elf-mage has asked everyone—and he means e_veryone_—from Leliana, Oghren, Sten, and Wynne, to the arl's idle servants and guards (productivity increases greatly around the estate, at least when the Warden is in sight), to patrons of the Gnawed Noble Tavern, the tranquil in the Wonders of Thedas, and even on one notable occasion, Sister Theohild, what could possibly make a man want to stop having sex—good sex, he always clarifies loudly, _amazing_ sex, really just that world-shattering, mind-blowing, affirming-your-belief-in-the-Maker kind of sex.

Leliana says he's become insufferable, and even Morrigan begs Zevran to just sleep with the Warden already and to put an end to his incessant pining. Only Alistair can put up with it at length, apparently immune due to prior experience or just out of relief that he's not the target for once. Zevran guesses that Surana is probably doing it to annoy him, although he can't say he is totally above feeling slightly pleased by the constant praising of his sexual prowess. In some twisted way, Zevran even theorizes that this is actually Surana's idea of an apology: extolling the wonders of his penis to the entire city of Denerim.

He has taken to spending the evenings at the estate in the arl's library, mostly because only Wynne ever finds reason to venture into such a place. Since realizing what has transpired between himself and the Warden, her glances have softened from the usual disapproval to become something more kind, and she is overall much easier to tolerate than, say, the decidedly crimson shade Alistair's face turns any time they come into contact with each other, Oghren's hearty, lecherous laughter, or Leliana's attempts at some rudimentary form of couple's counseling. Which they were not, he thinks with practiced detachment. He and the Warden had never been anything, and it was foolish to entertain any notions to the contrary.

He sighs as his hand automatically finds the earring in his ear.

But his hiding place is hardly a well-kept secret, and tonight it is not Wynne who enters the library. Of course it is Surana, clumsily stumbling between bookshelves, knocking old tomes about, and smelling like Oghren's backpack full of ale.

Zevran is sitting at a small wooden table that has been backed up against a wall, and watches Surana settle himself into the chair across from him. "One would think that a mage who grew up in a giant tower full of books would be more careful in a library," Zevran says conversationally.

Surana shakes his head, and leans forward, placing his elbows on the table and resting his head on the heels of his palms, fixing Zevran with an exaggeratedly dreamy, longing sort of gaze. "I don't wanna talk about books," he says bluntly. "I wanna talk about _you_. You're acting strange. You're acting like… not-you. Why won't you come to bed with me? I miss you."

Zevran would have snorted, if that were not entirely against his nature and sense of poise and decency. He has half a mind to ignore Surana, who is now batting his eyelashes like the cheapest whore on the sleaziest street corner in Antiva City, and call someone to take him to his room and put him to sleep. But, he notes to himself, alcohol means lowered inhibitions, and the chance that Surana will not remember this conversation tomorrow morning.

So when Surana asks him again why he has begun supporting an abstinence-only approach to life, Zevran tells him. Most of what he says is nothing Surana doesn't already know: he is an assassin. Sentiment is dangerous. He takes what pleasures life offers, and can expect nothing more.

The other man's eyes are glassy and his face is flushed, but Zevran notes with some satisfaction that he is listening intently, his brow furrowed in concentration. "I thought it was the same between us. A pleasant diversion and little more, and yet…"

Suddenly something flashes across Surana's face, a more devious look that Zevran knows well, and strangely it puts him at ease. "Are you…" Surana speaks slowly and squints at Zevran accusingly. "Are you really saying that you're in love with me? _That's_ why you're doing this?"

"I don't know… how would you know such a thing?" Zevran answers, and whatever he says next is full of well-chosen, eloquent words, that are unfortunately lost on Surana in his current state. He is silly and his mind feels slow, but he is relatively sure that what he hears follows the general gist of _I grew up with whores and the Crows are awfully unfriendly, so I have a suitcase full of commitment issues, but yes, I am in love with you, you shining paragon of masculinity—_though that part he later suspects was his imagination—_I just need you to admit it first._

"Do you… understand me?" Zevran asks finally, thinking that he has probably lost a large portion of the other elf's attention during his explanation, and readies himself for some irrelevant, unrelated remark about the tapestry on the wall behind him, or Alistair's hair, or perhaps if he is very lucky, Surana will even vomit on his boots.

Instead, Surana gives him a totally free, uncalculated smile, and reaches out to touch the side of Zevran's face. He has seen the look Zevran is giving him now many times, across the faces of all the people who have asked him for help since he became a Grey Warden, and especially on Alistair's face whenever he speaks of Duncan. The only problem is that Alistair's face is round and soft and innocent, his countenance so reminiscent of a puppy already that those sad eyes always seem to fit in. But Zevran— Zevran has sharp edges, he is quick and strong and cocksure (and beautiful and dangerous, he reminds himself). Surana will not tolerate _that_ look on Zevran's face. It is unnatural. It is… heartbreaking. Which is a very unpleasant feeling, he thinks, or perhaps that's the ale. "Well, my parents weren't whores or Crows, so far as I know, but I promise I still don't know anything about love that you don't, Zevran, except for how you make me feel. You, and not anyone else. Even if I'm as useful as a sodding fruitbasket when it comes to making that clear, sometimes. Most times."

Zevran once again finds himself speechless, and he has to take a moment to check – _I am awake, yes?_ – before he can come up with an adequate response. His hand again returns to his ear, to finger the tiny piece of jewelry—the giant, forbidden sentiment—that Surana had blithely rejected.

"I… still have the earring," he says slowly, reading Surana's expression closely so he can withdraw his offer again at the first sign of danger, and silently curses the Maker for making him feel like Surana is somehow always in control of every situation, even when drunk. He removes the earring, and slides it across the table towards the other man. "A token of affection," he says in explanation.

The grin that breaks out across Surana's face is so unabashedly gleeful that Zevran decides maybe he isn't so in control after all. And when the signature note of mischief finds its way into his expression, it is lighthearted with no thought for manipulation. "Sounds like a proposal."

"Not unless you wish it." Zevran's voice is breathy with hope he does not allow himself to feel.

When Surana says, "I'll take it," and scoops the golden earring up and begins trying, with a great lack of coordination, to locate the tiny hole in his earlobe, Zevran is sure, with as little question as there will ever be, that Surana truly does wish it.

"Then that is enough for me," he murmurs, and gets up to help his lover before he pricks himself, draws blood, and ruins a perfectly good moment.

* * *

**A/N:** And now we're in the home stretch. Everyone knows the deal: Demon babies will be offered and considered, archdemons will be slain, and everything will end, one way or another. Thank you for sticking with me so far, I really appreciate it!


	4. Part the Fourth

Apologies, I meant to get this up earlier, but the schoolwork I had been neglecting to write all this finally caught up with me, and then I got stuck in a corner trying to figure out what I wanted to say. Alas! Anyway now, onto the _stirring_ conclusion… (la-de-da):

* * *

_[12] Ritual_

Zevran knows he will not sleep, so he doesn't even try. Instead, he lies in his bed, acutely aware of the emptiness next to him, and tries to use the meditation and breathing exercises the Crows teach to recruits to facilitate self-control and discipline to help ease his anxiety and pass the hours before morning, when they will begin their hurried march back to Denerim.

Surana had sought him out late in the evening, pulling him away from the others and into a deserted storeroom, one of the few places in the crowded castle where no one would hear them, since Morrigan was waiting for him in his rooms, as he soon explained. He told Zevran everything: all the secrets that Riordan had revealed and the terms of the witch's offer, discretion be damned. He had seemed subdued, all traces of his usual glibness had been flattened out by the heavy weight of decisions whose repercussions suddenly seemed all too real. His eyes were dark. His voice trembled as he spoke. Zevran realized, with some bemusement, that his Warden was scared.

He had listened quietly and offered no advice, though his first instinct was that he would string up both this Riordan _and _Alistair and feed them to the archdemon personally before he would let Surana sacrifice himself. He knew the other elf had not come to him for his help or opinion, though; he was simply unloading, tired and overwhelmed from the secrecy and from months performing ridiculously complicated, personally dangerous tasks. It wasn't so much the tasks themselves that were the problem, but instead the responsibility that came with them which he could no longer deny. The mage was no saint, no noble hero. He lived for the thrill and the rush of adrenaline that battle promised, the heady ego trip of doing what he had been told he never could. Alistair was the one who valued his duty and promises to people he had never met, worried about the implications of their actions—which was why Surana had made him king not more than three days ago, promising his friend that he was more suited to the position than he gave himself credit for.

But there, in the dimness of a castle storeroom, describing the possibility of ultimate, all-encompassing _sacrifice_, he finally doubted himself and his motivations. "What do you plan to do?" Zevran had asked when Surana had told all he had to tell.

"I don't know," the mage said softly, distantly. There was a moment of silence before he turned towards the door and opened it, stepping out into the brightness of the hallway. "I don't know. But I need to go. To figure it out."

Zevran had not seen him since.

That frustratingly sentimental part of him had been hoping that they would spend this night together, before they marched off to Denerim and their possible deaths. That would be _nice,_ he thinks savagely, so why is he surprised that Surana seems to be denying it to him? Everything had seemed to have returned to sweet, dysfunctional normality between them, but their attention had also been focused on more immediate issues: the Landsmeet, Loghain, the Blight. But now, alone in the still darkness, it was easy to think that perhaps nothing has changed. Perhaps the mage will spend the whole night "performing the ritual" with Morrigan, if he has indeed chosen to go through with it, or perhaps his sentimentalities will lead him right back to Alistair, who apparently _understands_ in some way that Zevran cannot.

He wonders why, then, Surana had chosen to tell _him_ everything, when he could just as easily have let out all his concerns to his fellow Grey Warden if they did indeed share some special bond with which the assassin could not compete. Frustrated and without any satisfactory explanation, he tries again to clear his mind and focus on steady breaths and sleep.

But then he hears the door creak open, and a slim dark form slips into his room and collapses heavily onto the bed. Zevran sits up, supporting himself on his elbows, and looks over at Surana. His face is obscured by the darkness, but he seems less tense than he had been.

"I couldn't risk him dying," Surana says. His voice is startlingly flat. "I don't trust that Riordan will be able to do it… he's been vacationing in Arl Howe's dungeon since Ostagar, so forgive me if I doubt that he's in _top_ dragon-slaying form. Fate would never be so kind as to allow me that security, and then who's to say my beloved, idiot shem won't lapse into suicidal heroics that I will be unable to stop?"

"Yes, it is always good to rationalize away your selfish decisions," Zevran snaps, easing himself back down into the pillows. He certainly agrees that participating in Morrigan's ritual was the most prudent choice, but he is _not_ in the mood to listen to Surana try to convince himself that he did it out of concern for the all-important templar, the soon-to-be king, _Alistair_. And then, like clockwork—

"You really think it's _selfish_ of me to do everything in my power to ensure that the King of Ferelden will live, do you?" Surana is indignant, but says the word "selfish" as if it makes him feel ill.

"Ah, yes, the _king,_" Zevran says coldly. "I must have forgotten that is all he is to you. I am sure your decisions are made solely with concern for politics, and nothing else. My sincerest apologies, Warden."

"May I remind you that you _murder people_ for a living, Zevran? Your big pedestal of righteousness seems rather shakily built, so take care you don't fall off," Surana answers, eyes narrow, his words short and precise. "You of all people want to criticize me for sleeping with a woman under somewhat dubious circumstances to save a… friend?"

Zevran sighs, exasperated. Women, sex, and dubious circumstances… Surana is right, he objects to none of it. He is thankful, he really is, that Morrigan has proved to be this useful. If an issue presents itself in the future, it can be dealt with at that time. What Zevran does not understand is why it always has to connect back to Alistair—Surana's fixation never seems to abate, and he _denies_ it. "You didn't make your decision so you would be able to save Alistair. And he is not just your _friend _or your _king. _Denial does not suit you, Warden. If you would prefer to relentlessly pursue someone who has made it _abundantly _clear that he does not want you, then it will be no trouble for me forget what has transpired and step aside to allow you that freedom."

Surana sits up sharply and throws his feet over the edge of the bed. He curls forward, trying to shrink away from Zevran out of fear or guilt or exhaustion—he isn't sure which—and does not answer. Zevran is aware in the back of his mind that perhaps this is not the most appropriate time to criticize his Warden's thought processes, but more of him is concerned that if he doesn't address it now, he never will.

"Must I reject you as well, is that what you wish? Or perhaps I shall wear my hair in ridiculous fashions and eat more cheese? Shall I stare at you in terror and blush like a schoolboy whenever you speak to me?" Zevran asks venomously, firing the questions like arrows at Surana's hunched form.

"No, I… you're right," Surana says hoarsely, his shoulders beginning to shake. He feels Zevran's arms wrap around him, and leans into the embrace. Several words spring into his mind at that moment to describe himself, but the most prominent among them are "selfish" and "s_tupid and blind._"

"No, this isn't about Alistair," he confirms, and he knows that it hasn't been for a very long time. His infatuation had long ago become a bad habit that wouldn't die, nothing more than a convenient crutch to fall back on so he could keep from having to process _real_ feelings. He doesn't blame Zevran for having had enough of it. "You're right, and I've been an insufferable nug-humper, and I apologize. I won't make it an issue again."

"Good," the assassin says into his Warden's ear, and he is pleased to find the tiny jeweled earring still there. Something familiar shoots through him in waves, and for once Zevran admits that he is feeling _possessive _and does not deny himself the luxury of expecting the man in his arms to yield to him, and only him, because he thinks that by now he's earned it. The knots that have been twisting inside of him all loosen and the questions begin to vanish, their importance suddenly nullified.

Surana trembles as he speaks again. "I know that it _is_ selfish, though. The ritual. Morrigan will be pregnant with my demon baby and the soul of an Old God—Maker, it's like I'm begging for something bad to happen. But Alistair has also been a better friend to me than I've deserved. You both have, truthfully, and I wouldn't let him die, even if he wasn't going to be king. _Neither _of you are dying," he says it as if it's more of a command than anything else.

"Of course you don't wish for us to die," Zevran whispers, softened now, satisfied and seeing that Surana needs assurances. "But I think it is as you said. If Riordan cannot kill the archdemon, then the task must fall to you. And if I know you, I don't think that you are very eager to become a martyr, even if it is for friendship. Perhaps this is selfish, and so what? _Mi amora_, I will never criticize you for that. In fact, I readily encourage selfishness of this type—of many types, really, but particularly this, if it keeps you alive to play your games and put me in such endlessly frustrating situations."

Silence settles over them like a thick, warm blanket, and Surana is finally calmed by the forgiveness in Zevran's words. Some of his undeterrable exuberance begins to return, whatever crisis that had overtaken him conquered or absolved, and they make their way back into the bed, becoming twisted and entangled with each other and the sheets.

They do sleep eventually, and it is undisturbed by worries or dreams, at least until morning.

* * *

_[13] Fort Drakon_

There is a span of time during the final battle that Zevran swears he is not inside his own body.

When he thinks about the moment that archdemon was slain, which he tries to do as little as possible, he feels as if his field of vision is widening and he is flying away, exploding with the light that erupts from the dragon's neck and envelopes his Warden.

He is vaguely aware of his body being thrown back, far away from Alistair and Morrigan and where Surana lies motionless next to the body of the dragon. There is an impossibly long moment, then, when everything is completely still, and though he is fighting a massive battle of wills to move, to stand, to _get to him_, he remains flat on the ground.

Then reality comes back as if a switch has been flipped, and Zevran catapults forward with speed that surprises even him, knocking Alistair and straggling darkspawn alike out of his path.

When he finally makes it, and sees that Surana is not moving, he knows that he starts screaming, incoherent, consuming rage exploding from him. He lets fury overtake grief, but he cannot decide who he is angriest at: Morrigan, for lying? Surana, for dying?Or perhaps Alistair, for _not_ dying?

_(The irony is unbearable, after everything he put up with, for it to end like this.)_

But then, as he is considering this, Surana's eyelids flutter, and he moves his head slightly and groans, as if he's only waking from a night of heavy drinking. His eyes finally open and fall on Zevran, who guesses he must look ridiculous and disheveled and surprised and just _grateful_ at this point, because Surana grins stupidly and reaches up to touch him, mumbles something.

Zevran scoops him up in his arms and laughs, hysterically, like their lives depend on it, and he hardly even notices that Alistair is standing near them, panting slightly with a joyous, relieved grin across his face, and that Morrigan is simply gone.

Everything is finally over, and everything has just begun.

* * *

There are times in the coming weeks that Zevran wakes up in a cold sweat, blinding white light and the image of Surana's lifeless body fresh in his mind. Other times, he wakes up because he cannot breathe, not because of his dreams, but because Surana's hand is clamped over his mouth. It's the same every time: he gains consciousness mid-struggle, to the oppressive feeling of Surana's soft skin pressed against his lips, and the first thing he sees is the mage watching over him, innocent and doe-eyed. As he gasps, Surana always says the same thing, his voice low and gentle, hand now stroking his hair lightly, affectionate in the mage's own roundabout way: "I like it when you scream my name, you know, but please just not like that."

Eventually, the dreams subside, just as Surana's have since the end of the Blight, and Zevran can finally consider them even.

**********

_[Epilogue]_

After the final battle, coronation ceremonies, parades, and countless other celebrations were over, the newly-crowned King Alistair begged Surana in private to stay in Denerim. He had said publicly that he planned to travel, and maybe he would consider returning either to help the Grey Wardens or the Circle. He hadn't mentioned Denerim or court at all, and that made Alistair nervous. Of course he had Eamon, Wynne, and an army of advisors to aid him, but the thought of facing this new life of politics and governance without the man who'd become his closest friend—the man who had orchestrated his current position in the first place—made him uneasy, and lonely for the first time since leaving the Chantry. He told Surana he would give him absolutely anything he wanted: his own estate, riches, a whole field full of lampposts, and his own personal guard to make sure Zevran was protected from any Crows sent for him. But Surana had only smiled weakly, and slid a slender arm around the blonde haired assassin who had hardly left his side since they had descended from Fort Drakon, victorious and alive.

"I'm sorry, Alistair," he had said, his voice oddly even and emotionless, though Alistair knew the apology was sincere. They were close friends, comrades. Of course Surana would miss him, and yet… "I'd like to see more of Thedas, without the Blight looming over my every movement, and Zevran has offered to take me to Antiva."

Of course Zevran had something to do with this, and Alistair felt a stab of white-hot jealousy course through him, suddenly missing the relentless teasing and flirting he'd always fended off. He didn't even bother asking Surana if he would return after his visit to Antiva… the quiet calmness in the mage's eyes when they set upon him, where there had only been fire and passion before, told him everything he needed to know.

Years later, Alistair began to hear rumors that one Zevran Arainai and a mysterious elven mage were indeed in Antiva, and had carved their way to the top of the House of Crows.

* * *

Surana was awful at saying goodbye.

He felt it was something that should only be said with a note of finality. Why say goodbye to someone if you were to be reunited shortly? It didn't make sense, and it irritated him.

So whenever he had to separate from Zevran, and his return was not assured, the mage always brushed the side of his face with his hand, and commanded sternly, "You will not die."

And if Zevran noticed that he felt a little stronger, a little more alert, with that touch, and that his enemies' blades seemed a little more likely to miss him, he had no questions— he was only thankful that it made it that much easier to oblige.

* * *

"Your majesty, I have news from Antiva."

Alistair was sitting in his study, tiredly pouring over stacks of contracts, letters, and other papers that were supposed to be important to him for some reason that he had failed to identify over the past several years as King of Ferelden. He was itching to go outside to the training grounds and spar with the guards, just to kill the boredom that seemed to settle thickly around him whenever he sat down in his study for any length of time, but Eamon had threatened to schedule him to appear at a few banquets for young Fereldan noblewomen if he didn't keep up with the paperwork.

Eamon had been irritable lately, after reports had been pouring in over the past few weeks about the suspicious deaths of a few of the minor banns. Alistair was troubled, as well; at first, it had seemed merely like a few coincidental accidents, but it was all too methodical and convenient. Everyone was beginning to suspect foul play, but no one knew who was responsible or why.

At his foreign advisor's arrival, Alistair had looked up quickly, grateful for any distraction or excuse to take a break from this busywork, but his excitement turned to dread when he heard his advisor mention Antiva_._ He liked to be genial and informal as often as he could, but something about Antiva always made him clam up. His first thought was always of Surana, and his own overwhelming jealousy that he had chosen to travel with Zevran instead of staying at court and helping to make the whole king business more tolerable. There had been plenty of times that the persuasive support of the Hero of Ferelden (or even just a friend) would have been more than a little helpful in dealing with the nobles, but in the end Alistair had to admit that the lack of it had taught him how to handle things on his own.

"Go ahead, Iain."

"Ser, the House of Crows has… sent you a package. As you would expect, it has been inspected thoroughly and we believe the message and… gift… are genuine."

Alistair's chest felt even tighter at the mention of the Crows—assassins always made his day brighter—so he stood up and moved to lean casually on his desk, hoping the change in position would loosen him up. "Give me the message first, please."

Iain handed Alistair a neatly folded letter, written in fine ink on expensive, weighty parchment. He easily recognized Surana's handwriting, though it had been years since he had seen it.

_To my dearest, most respectable King of Ferelden, Alistair Theirin,_

_I regret that it has been quite some time since we last spoke, but I understand that Ferelden has been faring well under your rule and that with Eamon's guidance you're becoming quite the leader—fair and reasonable and well-loved. I'll refrain from a childish "I told you so," even though if I remember correctly, I did. Regardless, I'm sure it has come to your attention in recent weeks that a peculiar pattern of Ferelden nobles have been meeting a series of unfortunate accidents. I would like to extend my deepest regrets for this tragedy, but feel it necessary that I bring to your attention an episode that occurred not too long ago._

_Imagine our surprise when Master Arainai and I learned that two minor banns of Ferelden had seen fit to travel to Antiva, seeking to discuss the terms of a sticky business venture with the Crows personally. It seems these banns were under the impression that they stood to gain quite a bit of power and riches if they were successful in eliminating the current monarch and his supporters and reinstating a certain disgraced teyrn's daughter—surely you haven't forgotten about Anora, languishing in that tower? I'm afraid that they even offered quite a handsome sum for our assistance, dear Alistair._

Alistair felt himself become somewhat lightheaded as he absorbed the implications of the information. The possibility of rebellion and yet another battle over the throne was bad enough, but he was particularly thrilled at the prospect of being hunted by Crows for the second time in his life—especially Crows lead by Zevran and… _Surana_. Were they giving him some kind of heads-up, fair warning among old friends? He shouldn't have been so disappointed that the years between them would see the dissolution of their camaraderie to the point that Surana would not hesitate to see him assassinated for a large enough bottom line, but still it stung.

_But you can un-furrow your worried brow, my friend; such expressions do not become you. And fear not for the end of your plentiful appearances among your subjects and "secret" evening visits to local taverns. Upon hearing their plans, we dispatched the rebels personally and without hesitation, even at the expense of the fine Orlesian silk shirts Zevan was wearing. He was put out about it, so I do hope you are grateful for our efforts. I took the liberty of tracking down the remainder of the conspirators, and you have the Crows' assurance that they pose no further threat._

_Still, you must do something about Anora— you are too indulgent when it comes to matters of your survival. It will stay no secret that the House of Crows is not accepting contracts on the King of Ferelden, though I'm sure you'll understand if that exception does not extend to other members of your court… business is business, after all. But the Crows are not offering you protection, and from now on will only be turning a blind eye. I am only sending you a warning that I hope, as a concerned friend, you will heed._

_On a personal note, since you have no mother to nag you about grandchildren, when am I to expect to hear news of young Alistairs scampering about the royal palace, depleting Ferelden of its cheese stores? There are some Crows in Denerim, you know, and even a few who have special orders to keep watch over you, and never have they reported even the most basically untoward or salacious stories about your activities. I must say I'm disappointed. If you had learned anything from me over our travels, I would have hoped it would be how to take up the philandering, lecherous habits befitting a young unwed King. Alas._

_Anyway, my kindest regards to you, your Majesty. You are welcome in Antiva should the mood ever strike you—though I warn you, you may be distraught upon the realization that Ferelden truly does smell only of dogs, once you've left._

_Con affetto ed amicizia,_

_Masters Surana & Arainai_

Iain watched his king closely as he read the letter, and when Alistair finished he glanced back up at his advisor, who said, "Not to worry, ser, I'm sure the part about the Crows watching you is simply Antivan bravado, the Royal Guard would never allow any such thing."

But even as he said the words, Iain's eyes were surveying the study warily, lingering on the dark or shadowed areas.

"No, Surana isn't Antivan, but… never mind, that's… lovely, really, because it's just touching that the Masters know how fond I am of assassins," Alistair said lightly, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously, suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of being watched. Still, the news wasn't really all that unpleasant, and it was surprisingly good to hear from Surana, even under these circumstances. "What about the package you mentioned?"

Iain reached inside his robes then, and procured a square square box, no more than six or seven inches on each side and filled with a fine grey ash. Handing the box to the incredulous king, Iain explained, "My Lord, the Masters claim that in this box is all that remains of the leaders of Anora's rebellion."

Alistair blinked once, and stared down at the box, a ghost of a smile playing across his face as he tried to imagine exactly how the meeting between the would-be rebels and Zevran and Surana must have played out. He shook his head, and looked up at Iain.

"The Crows send their regards."

_fin._

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**A/N:** Whew! And… that's it. That's all I got. I'll be ecstatic if you leave a review… you can tell me you loved it, or inform me that I have disgraced Zevran and you demand an apology. (I'm sorry, I promise!) Anyway, thank you if you braved it all, you are absolutely wonderful!


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